


reaching your limit

by sassydetective



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Being Walked In On, Hand Jobs, M/M, Praise Kink, Teasing, i'm mean and like denying my faves their happiness sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 06:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12452043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassydetective/pseuds/sassydetective
Summary: “A good detective doesn’t share his secrets unless there’s something provided in return.”“And what is it that a good detective wants in return?”akechi likes to tease; akira doesn't mind it too much.





	reaching your limit

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this because i was distinctly craving cute/hot banter fic between these two, so hopefully y'all like it. since there's no actual plot, just pretend they're in a happy universe where everyone is of age. thank you to squad for reading this and laughing when it's appropriate and giving me tips <3

Akira breathes slowly through his nose. Rain hits the windowpane steadily, muted pattering comprising the only sound in the room aside from Akechi’s voice, low and conspiratorial.

“What do you think of the way Makoto’s been failing to hide her adorable crush?” Akechi’s fingers slowly trace circles on Akira’s hipbone, just under his shirt, as he speaks. “You’ve certainly caught the way she keeps glancing to and from Okumura when she’s thinks no one’s looking.” He’s leaning on his elbow, body all along Akira’s but not touching anywhere except that one point. It’s entirely distracting, Akira thinks, and he tries to make sense of Akechi’s question through the muffled cotton static in his head.

“I wouldn’t,” he clears his throat and tries again, definitely not blushing at how Akechi’s smile sharpens slightly at the dip in his voice, “I wouldn’t have pegged you as an idle gossip.”

Akechi dips his hand below the waistband of Akira’s sweatpants in response, pressing insistently into the softer, sensitive skin there. Inhaling sharply, Akira rolls his head to the side to look up at Akechi through the hair curling past his forehead into his eyes. It’s significantly harder to feign indifference at the intensity of Akechi’s gaze, always boring straight through him, when Akechi’s hand is down his pants. He feels a bit defeated beneath the lazy, satisfied grin crinkling the corners of Akechi’s eyes. Akira is quickly learning that he definitely doesn’t want to win every battle.

“Think of it less as gossiping,” fingers brush against Akira’s dick through his briefs, “and more as gathering intel.” Biting the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face, Akira prioritizes the warmth of Akechi’s hand over the statement itself.

He refuses to break eye contact and opts to blink slowly before responding. “And you find that this intel on our kind and trustworthy friends comes in handy often?" If he’s going to lose, he’s not going to give Akechi the satisfaction of making it easy. His dick disagrees traitorously and twitches beneath Akechi’s feather-light touch. “Is it the sushi boat lunches or Futaba’s bi-weekly Splatoon competitions that necessitate it more?” he finishes weakly.

“I wouldn’t call them competitions as much as massacres,” Akechi says thoughtfully, as if he hasn’t wrapped his hand around Akira’s dick through his underwear. He pauses to smile, pleased when Akira’s hips buck. Leaning in close enough that Akira can smell the faint hint of citrus from his shampoo, he murmurs sweetly, “But you’d be surprised how much you can learn just from being observant at group outings, Akira-kun.”

“Do share.” It comes out gritted, lower than intended, teeth clenching at the languid way Akechi pulls his thumb over the tip of his dick, spreading the wetness that both of them can feel even through the cloth.

“A good detective doesn’t share his secrets unless there’s something provided in return.”

“And what is it that a good detective wants in return?” Akira asks, his question punctuated with a squeeze to his dick that drags a groan out from his throat.

“That’s it,” Akechi hums with contentment. “I like it when I can hear you. Stoic Joker, unraveling at my fingertips,” he muses half to himself.

Before he has a chance to respond, Akira registers Akechi’s hand pulling out of his pants with horror. Akechi laughs delightedly at his expression. “I’m just adjusting, don’t worry,” he says, and Akira’s chest tightens at the fondness in his voice. “That is by far the most adorable reaction I’ve ever seen to someone losing a hand in their pants.”

“You do this often?” He half meant it as a joke but cringes inwardly at Akechi’s raised brow. Still, his cheeks heat and stomach flips when Akechi brushes some of his hair out of his eyes and says “no” almost gently.

When he tugs insistently at the band of his sweatpants, Akira takes the hint and lifts his hips to pull his pants and underwear down. Akechi busies himself with kissing at the skin under Akira’s jaw – his nose is cold, but he follows soft kisses with light nips. Akira fails to swallow the end of a moan.

“See, I’ve learned a lot about you through our escapades,” Akechi says, and he’s very close, right by his ear. Akira had honestly forgotten they were still talking about this. Focusing on any one thing is increasingly challenging as Akechi’s warm, smooth hand (it's those fucking gloves, there’s no other explanation for his hands being this soft) wraps around Akira’s dick. “I know your neck is sensitive because I’ve seen you flinch when Morgana jumps onto your shoulders without warning.” Always the good detective, Akechi proves the accuracy of his deduction by kissing up Akira’s neck. He sucks at the sensitive spot right under his ear, all the while stroking him slowly until Akira whines brokenly and clenches the sheets under his hand tighter.

“Please don’t talk about Morgana,” Akira pants, “while your hand is on my dick.” Akechi’s laughter is one of his favorite sounds in the world, next to his swallowed sighs and whimpers. The train of thought doesn’t help Akira’s case, and he bucks into Akechi’s hand, which keeps its steady, painstakingly slow pace.

“Then what would you like me to talk about? How I watch you arguing about surrealism and cubism with Yusuke and think about fucking you into the bed?”

“I didn’t realize –“a choked groan as Akechi twists his wrist a certain way, “you were so affected by discussions of art.”

“Oh, you didn’t know Luis Buñuel makes me hard as a rock?” Akira knows he’s in love because he’s endeared by the snide quality of Akechi’s voice, the audible eye-roll in his snarky retorts.

Taking advantage of Akira’s momentary distraction, Akechi spreads the precome beading at the tip of his dick and slicks his hand in the process. The way he moves now, soft and wet, elicits a hiss out of Akira. “Jesus, you’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” Akechi says half to himself, absent-mindedly, appreciatively. “You’re being so loud for me.”

“You aren’t playing fair,” Akira mutters. He tries to lean onto his elbows, get closer and kiss Akechi, but he’s pushed back down, head bouncing slightly on the pillow.

“I never play fair,” Akechi whispers, as if it’s a secret just between the two of them. It might as well be, these heated words whispered between them in Akira’s small, hushed room, a bubble of their own away from prying, judging eyes, from hands that grab and take and scar; who else knows Akechi as well as he does? “Why would I when you let me cheat like this?”

“I would let you do anything,” Akira says without thinking – _fuck_ he’s too honest when Akechi’s jerking him off like this, slow and torturous – he can’t filter through the buzzing in his head. Akechi’s hand stutters momentarily, blinking in surprise before he resumes his pace; his voice is a little rougher when he speaks again.

“You make it so fun,” he says conversationally, “Being so good for me and doing what I say even when I’m teasing you like this.”

The praise goes straight to Akira’s dick, and his moan turns into something of a sob. “Please,” and the wrecked quality of his voice is embarrassing.

“Please what?” He knows Akechi’s going to catalogue every reaction of his and save it for later, to drag it out even worse next time, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s lying to himself if he says the thought doesn’t thrill him a little.

“Let me kiss you,” Akira demands, and, surprisingly, Akechi acquiesces. It’s a momentary victory when he throws a leg over so he’s settled on Akira’s thighs, folds his body to lean in and sigh softly into Akira’s mouth. Everything Akechi does – the way he slides his hand into Akira’s hair and pulls _hard_ , presses the hard line of his body against Akira with his hand trapped between them – is slow and lazy. Akira hates it, needs _more_ , but his body reacts against his will, rising up to meet Akechi’s mouth and hands. Akechi licks into his mouth, humming in that pleasant way all the while, and Akira is torn between concentrating on the soft, almost mocking curve of Akechi’s mouth and his thumb flicking down on the upstroke. When he sucks on Akechi’s tongue and Akechi moans low in his throat, he moves his hand to Akechi’s pants without a second thought, needing to touch him too, to –

Akechi breaks apart, breathing heavier and hair in disarray. “No, not today,” and he swats Akira’s hand away, “this is about you for once.”

Akira doesn’t question him, saves that conversation for a later time, and loses himself in Akechi’s touch and voice as he talks him through it. He isn’t aware of shutting his eyes, too busy focusing on the sound Akechi’s words rather than what they mean until he hears, “Look at me, Akira.” It turns out Akechi is much closer than he remembers, pupils blown and gaze hungry. “God, you look so hot like this. Are you going to come for me?”

“Yes,” Akira gasps, “yes, yes – “

Distantly, Akira thinks he hears voices from downstairs, and he must be imagining things because his brain is fried and he’s so close. Then a loud, distinctly Ann-like “AKIRA!” sounds from below, followed almost immediately by Ryuji calling, “We’re coming up, we brought snacks!” and loud footsteps coming up the stairs to his room.

His life flashes briefly before his eyes – Akira can see the pearly gates of the MetaNav.

In a split second, Akechi breaks apart and helpfully thrusts Akira’s pants into his hands. Lucky bastard didn’t take off any of his clothes, Akira thinks murderously as he grits his teeth and shoves his painfully hard dick into his underwear. Is killing your friends illegal when they interrupt you seconds from coming? He could probably put up a good fight in court, if he could convince Makoto to take his side on the manslaughter.

Ann and Ryuji burst into the room right as Akira wrenches his pants up. A quick glance at Akechi shows that he’s sitting primly on the bed, a gloved hand brushing the hair lightly out of his face and a small smile teasing at his lips. He has no right to look so satisfied when Akira is dying.

“Hey gu-whoa,” Ann’s greeting is cut off at the sight of Akira, who’s standing awkwardly on one side of the room with flushed cheeks and a wild mess of hair, clothes dragged on haphazardly. Her face pinks with recognition, and she hides her smile behind her hand as Ryuji looks between the three of them.

“What?” he asks, dropping a bag of food and drinks to the floor, “what am I missing?”

Everyone is silent for a moment. Ryuji looks at Akira, then at Akechi. Back at Akira. His eyes widen comically.

“Aw, dude! Why!” Ryuji’s face is beet-red, and his groaning barely doesn’t drown out Akechi’s light snickering. Akira’s glad at least someone is enjoying themselves.

“Akechi said you guys were free, just doing homework or whatever,” Ryuji stutters over his jaw, which had dropped to the floor and elected to stay there. Eyebrows shooting up into his mess of hair, Akira turns to give Akechi a shocked, questioning look. He _wouldn’t_.

Akechi shrugs lightly, smile devious. Akira thinks that he’ll kill him first.

“Yes I was… dutifully tutoring Akira over here,” he explains, and, tragically, Akira’s flush deepens.

Ryuji groans while Ann huffs, “Gross. And Akira has perfect scores on every assignment, so… gross.”

“Look, we brought all these snacks,” Ryuji says, defeated, “We might as well eat them. You’re probably hungry after.. after...” He trails off with a pained wince. Everyone in the room, with the exception of a grinning Akechi, is extremely grateful that he doesn’t finish his sentence.

Grabbing Ryuji’s arm and dragging him down the stairs, Ann gives Akira a pointed look. “Just come downstairs when you’ve got your pants on properly.” Looking down, Akira notices for the first time that his pants are on inside out and fervently wishes for a swift, painless death. They walk (or, Ryuji is pulled with an irritated “Ow, Ann, my biceps are sore!” “Shut it or your biceps won’t be the only things that are sore.”) out of the room, leaving them alone once again.

Akira turns very slowly to face Akechi in what he hopes is an intimidating demeanor. “Why? Why.”

Walking over to straighten Akira’s shirt and fix his glasses, Akechi’s smile is playful. “I’ve had quite the dull week at work and thought it would be entertaining,” he says sweetly, the tips of his fingers brushing lightly against Akira’s cheekbones. “You don’t mind too much, do you?” Akechi has all of two seconds to look cleverly into Akira’s eyes before his expression drops into one of surprise at Akira crowding into him and grabbing his hands by the wrists.

“Oh, not at all,” he drawls slowly, pulling Akechi’s hands down and walking them back against the table with a light thunk. Grip tight, he leans against Akechi and whispers softly by his ear, “I’ll be sure to thank you later.” They stay close together like that just long enough for him to hear Akechi’s sharp intake of breath, then Akira breaks away.

He walks briskly towards the stairs, pre-empting Ryuji’s annoyed “Come on, man!” when he’s made to wait longer than five minutes. As he turns onto the step, Akira just barely hears a light but emphatic _fuck_ from behind him.

If they notice, Ann and Ryuji make no comment about Akira’s pleased smirk or Akechi’s uncharacteristic silence as they dig into their convenience store bento.


End file.
